


oil painting

by agapes



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Feelings, Friendship, Gen, Gift Giving, Happy, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Light Angst, One Big Happy Family, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-06-27 02:36:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15676296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agapes/pseuds/agapes
Summary: Jester loses her paints.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> all I wanted was to write something nice starring jester bc I love her and I got carried away so here’s this

There are not very many quiet moments to be found when traveling in a group of six collectively rowdy companions. But in the breaks, the off times, where everyone settles down to steal a moment or two—or whatever they can catch—for themselves, Jester paints.

Not the usual kind: not the ink and watercolor she brought out while laying on her stomach beside the campfire or sitting at the bar or lying in bed with Beauregard watching over her shoulder. No, this was something different. Something special. She kept it to herself, and she was just fine with that.

It wasn’t that it was a secret; she just didn’t tell anybody. 

Whenever Jester could spare the time, she brought out a worn striped towel and a large, dented tin box from the bottom of her bag. She would spread out the towel and empty the contents of the box onto it, and lay them out in an orderly fashion: a small easel; a stack of white canvas boards; a dozen tubes of the best quality oil paints; a handful of brushes, worn from use; a white sealable palette; two jars for mineral spirits and linseed oil; a small container of brush cleaner, which she used sparingly; and two paint-soiled old rags.

Jester would throw open the inn’s window or roll up her tent’s flap, push back her hair and tie up her sleeves, pick a canvas board, and paint. 

She paints everything. Scenes from her travels, portraits of her mother, her favorite pastries, fantastical creatures drawn from her imagination, guesses at what her father might look like. Most she sent back to her mother, with her letters. Once, she painted a potted plant that had sat on the night table next to her bed at an inn, and left it there for the owner to discover after they left the next day.

There was no practical reasons for it; the canvases stacked up quickly, and she had to use valuable magic to protect the paint. She sent the completed works away, or left them behind, or snapped them in half and tossed them, or stomped on them until the image was no longer recognizable and the bottom of her boots became a new painting, of blues and blacks, and walked for hours leaving mini masterpieces behind on the trail.

That last one—that was a one-time deal.

But regardless of practicality, it was something that she loved, and it was good for her. Good to sit down alone and be quiet for a few hours and _concentrate_ , to explore her imagination and interpretation of the world around her. It settled her mind and helped her breathe.

For Jester, oil painting was more about the _process_ than the _product_ —not that the product wasn’t fun, too.

So when she lost her paints, _she_ was lost.

They were on the road again, because of course they were. The weather itself seemed to smile at their ragtag bunch, bumping down the rocky trail in their newly refurbished carriage; the sun beamed down as it moved past its apex, filling the air with a pleasant warmth that warranted both the removal of various jackets as well as the implementation of an incredibly good mood. The air smelled pleasantly of wildflowers, and the waves of tall, bright grass stretching out on either side—broken occasionally by a blue brook—provided for a nice, interesting landscape.

Fjord sat up front, manning the reigns. Jester listened to his sudden peal of laughter as Caleb, sitting up with him, told some sort of joke or story. Farther up the trail was was Beauregard on scouting duty, who would be returning soon with news of the ideal place to stop for the night. In the back, Mollymauk lounged with his head on Yasha’s shoulder, and the pair chatted amiably, with the occasional complaint called up front from Molly as the carriage hit a rather large rock. Yasha, Jester noted, seemed to be talking a lot more than usual; she laughed, too, a rolling, charming sound that was pleasant to listen to. Nott—and Frumpkin—took advantage of the warm, steady sun, and curled up to nap. And Jester sat with her back against the carriage’s low wall and organized her paint box.

She laid her materials out on the towel and took the time to do what she otherwise would not have. Jester cleaned her brushes—really _cleaned them_ —with her nice brush cleaner. Then she wiped the handles clean, removing layers of paint smudges that had accumulated over her more recent travels. Once shiny and new, she stored the brushes carefully back into their rolling carrier. When they were stored properly she set about cleaning her paint tubes, which consisted mainly wiping the bodies and caps clean and peeling off bits of crusted paint that had dried out around the cap. And so on she went, mindfully and methodically cleaning and organizing until she was satisfied.

Jester painstakingly packed everything back into the tin box, which she secured shut and set at the end of the carriage next to her bags, and decided to take a nap. She pulled off her shoes and bundled her green half cape into something resembling a pillow, then placed it by Nott and Frumpkin, and laid down and closed her eyes.

The clattering of their gear as the carriage rocked and bumped annoyed her at first, but she kept her eyes shut and made the motions lull her to sleep.

When she woke, the sky was still blue, but now spattered with long strands of pink and purple clouds, and the lighting was dimming as the sun dipped to the horizon. The cart had rattled to a stop by a small cluster of trees, leaves fluttering in the now chilly breeze.

Jester sat up and stretched, yawning, and asked to anyone who was listening, “What time is it?”

It was Caleb who responded immediately: “Almost six.” Judging how his hair was flattened on one side and by the way he rubbed his eyes, he seemed to have dozed off at some point as well.

She smoothed out her half cape and shrugged it on, then reaffixed her belt. “Why are we stopping so soon? Usually we would keep going for another hour probably at least.”

“We’re not in a rush,” called Fjord, hitching the horses among the trees. “And Nott’s been feelin’ sick since she woke up, so we figured it’d be best to get off the trail for the night.”

“Right.” Molly rose and stretched, bending down to touch his toes. “Good thing, too. Bumping around over all those rocks was giving me a headache.” The jewelry decorating his horns sparkled in the evening sun.

With Beau leaving the way, Jester, Fjord, and Yasha pushed the cart through the trees to a small clearing the monk had scouted out earlier in their travels. They parked it flush against the ring of trees and began to slowly unload their goods, while Yasha grunted about firewood and walked off. 

The clearing was open to the sky overhead, so Jester took only her bag and bedroll, and went off to stomp around and find the softest bit of ground. When she found something satisfactory, she dropped her things.

Curiously, her backpack didn’t make its usual racket when she dropped it; it took her a solid few seconds before she remembered why. Before napping, she had forgot to pack her painting box back into her backpack.

No matter. 

Jester traipsed back to the cart and hefted herself back up into it. The box wasn’t where she last remembered putting it, but that was fine. She waded through their belongings, checking behind, under, and in all the nooks and crannies she could get her hands on. She even checked _in_ a few other bags, but the box was nowhere to be found.

Right, right. It was fine. Somebody else probably moved it. Just because it wasn’t in the cart—that doesn’t mean anything. The others had been moving stuff around ever since they parked, so somebody else _must_ have moved it without knowing what it was. 

With perfect timing, Fjord returned to the cart to move more bags; she wiggled her way back, out from amongst the luggage to sit with her legs dangling off the back of the cart. “Fjord?”

“Hm.”

“Any chance you saw a uh box that you may have unloaded, or put back into the cart?”

He laughed and straightened up. “Sorry bluebird, I’m gonna need more details than that. We’ve got a lotta boxes.”

“It’s about this big”—she mimed the dimensions—“and silver, and makes a kinda bad noise when you tap it, one of the corners is dented, it’s not really heavy but it’s kinda bulky I guess, but I mean, it might be heavy to like, Nott or something.”

Her mind auto-filled the rest of the conversation: _Of course_ , Fjord would say, and he would gesture, and say, _was it yours? I put it just over there_ , and she would go, _Thank youuu!_ and skip off to grab her box and squirrel it away, but—

“Nope, sorry Jester, I didn’t see anything like that in the cart.”

“Oh.” Her heart- her heart stutters, and the air feels suddenly like it weighs just a bit more on her shoulders. But it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. Just because Fjord didn’t see it doesn’t mean anything. “Okay. It’s probably, I mean, somebody else might’ve moved it.”

“Maybe.” Fjord hefted Caleb’s bag over one shoulder and Nott’s over the other—the two in question sitting quietly at the edge of the clearing—and asked, “What was in it?”

Jester ignored the suspicion in his voice. “Nothing important.”

He narrowed his yellow eyes at her, but let it slide and turned away to deliver the bags.

The second Fjord was facing away, Jester felt the indifferent smile she had plastered on slide right off her face.

There was still hope, she told herself. Whole boxes of painting supplies don’t just vanish into thin air. Somebody else must have moved it. So she went to Caleb; she had seen him moving stuff around earlier, and if anyone would know, it would be him.

The man in question was sitting with his back up against a tree next to the tent Nott was sleeping her headache away in, already immersed in a book despite camp not even being fully set up.

“Caleb!” Jester plastered on a grin and dropped down to sit in front of him.

When he looked up, Caleb’s eyes did the thing they always do where he makes eye contact for a second before they slide down to rest somewhere around her ear, darting occasionally around her face and the air surrounding it. “ _Ja?_ ”

“Have you seen-“ She described the box again, complete with miming motions. _This time_ , she thought, pushing down the sick feeling in her stomach, _this time_.

His lips twisted in thought for a moment, before he shook his head and said, “Afraid not, sorry. What is in this box you’re looking for?”

Jester didn’t hear him.

Instead it seemed that the earth crumbled around her, accompanied by a wave of something that felt almost like seasickness.

_All_ of it—the paints, the brushes worn from the years, the countless birthday gifts, the best portrait of her mother she had painted yet—was all of it gone?

That fake smile—that fake smile she had mustered ever so briefly slipped off and tears welled up in her eyes and she saw Caleb lean forward, probably concerned, but a roaring started up in her ears and she’s felt miserable and lonely and desperate before but this is _despair_ —

“Jester?” A hand was planted on her shoulder.

In that moment, when she jolted and wheeled around to lock eyes with Beau, she realized that she had a choice. So she chose the easy option.

Jester screwed up her face and loosed a couple of tears—not all of them—and forced a dramatic sniffle.

“Hey, hey, whoa!” Beau dropped to her knees, exchanging a series of very obvious expressions with Caleb. “What’s up?”

“I—“ Her voice cracked, and not on purpose. “I lost my paints.”

More people were approaching. She could see Fjord kneeling in front of her, next to Caleb; Yasha could be glimpsed at the edge of her vision; from somewhere behind her, Molly said, low and quiet and smooth, “Give her some space.”

Time seemed to slow to something muddy and dragging, and with ever aching second that passed, Jester found it harder and harder to put up a dramatic facade. It felt as if the energy was rushing out of her—like casting magic, but worse, far worse—and the despair was seeping in, threatening to overwhelm.

Beau’s hand was pushed off her shoulder, and Molly spoke again: “Alright, shoo. All of you, back to your business, let’s go.” 

Somewhere in the back of her head, Jester was incredibly grateful. The others rose and scattered quickly enough, and in their place, Molly sat down in front of her.

He crossed his legs and planted his elbows on his knees. “So, you said you lost your paints?”

Jester shook her head and pressed her hands on the dirt in an attempt to ground herself. All she could manage was, “Yes.”

“Your watercolors?” 

A sort of chill went through her arms. “No. My- my oil paints.”

When she looked up, Molly’s face was set, calm and careful. “I’m sorry,” he said evenly, “I wasn’t even aware that you had others. Are they very special?”

Molly’s presence was… calming. It made it feel less like she was spiraling out of control and more like someone was helping her down a spiral staircase. 

She took a breath. “They were the best of the best, r-really expensive, my mother always got me new colors for my birthday, I’ve had them for ages, I h-had my paintings in there—“ Jester broke off with a huff. “They’re really important, and now they’re gone and I don’t know where they went—“

“Hey.” Molly reached out and took her hand. “It’ll do you no good worrying about them now. Where was the last place you remember having them?”

“Around noon probably, I set the box down in the cart and took a nap.”

“Right, well, we can look through all of our things again tomorrow, and then maybe a couple of us could backtrack on the trail a bit. The box could’ve fallen off, and I’m sure nobody would mind going for a walk.”

Jester sniffed and swiped her palm over her cheeks, and Molly gave her other hand a squeeze. “Thanks, Molly.”

“Any time.” He clapped his hands together and stood up with a flourish, then offered a hand to help her up. She took it. “I think the best thing you can do right now is eat, then get some sleep, hm?”

“Right.”

Dinner that night was nothing special—warmed up biscuits with munster cheese and hard-boiled eggs—considering that their stocks were disappearing at an alarming rate, but there seemed to be a great effort to keep the mood up.

At first, it wasn’t enough. Beau’s loud, seemingly forced laughter was grating, and Nott’s constant nudging her shoulder was just annoying when all she wanted to do was sit and eat alone. As the sky darkened and the temperature began to drop they built up the fire, and at some point Molly asked if Caleb could spell it different colors. At any other time the wizard would scoff and call such a request a waste of magic, and at the moment Jester privately agreed. But he did anyway.

But at some point, the lonely numbness started to wear away. Jester found herself giggling at some overblown fight reenactment Nott, now headache-free, had roped Caleb into, and her mood only got better when Fjord brought out the rest of the lavender cake they had bought in the last town. 

For a moment everything was right. They laughed around the fire as they told stories and jokes and ate only slightly stale cake, and despite the furtive glances the others kept sneaking at her, Jester felt _good_.

For a moment, but it didn’t last.

When sky went black and they saw bats flutter by overhead they brought the fire down and, when Yasha volunteered for first watch, dispersed. Some had brought out tents while others hadn’t; those that did bid goodnight and crawled in, while those that didn’t settled down and spoke in hushed whispers.

It was then, when the chill crept back into the air and back into her bones, that Jester found herself sinking again. 

Half of her thought, _No, please, I was just fine_ , and the other half just sighed and gave in. So she got up, and consigned herself to a miserable, sleepless night. What else could she do?

When Jester laid down for bed that night, she felt empty. 

She didn’t even bother to look at the stars.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning was bright and cheery, with birds chirping and sunlight streaming through the trees. Someone bustled through the camp—she couldn’t tell who—and there was already a small fire going for breakfast.

It was nice. The sun was warm and there was a good smell in the air, she felt tired but light and free—

_Oh._

A solid weight landed back in her chest.

It was different, though. Last night she felt like she needed to scream or sob or jump out of her skin or do _something_ to rid herself of the feeling, but now… There was just nothing. Vague exhaustion, maybe, but nothing else.

In a way, it was harder to deal with. The cavern that had opened up inside her made anything she felt bounce around and echo, though she couldn’t seem to comprehend any of it. Lying in her bed roll, she stared up at the pale sky and attempted to gauge the time; but she was no Caleb, so without seeing the sun, her best guess was early morning.

Jester sat up and rubbed her eyes. The campground was quiet save for the crackling of a fire where water was boiling, next to which a bleary-eyed Beauregard sat hunched over, sea-green necklace snaking through her hands.

She jerked upright as if startled when she saw Jester. “M-morning,” Beau yawned, settling her necklace back onto her pretty collarbone. “How’d you sleep?”

“Well enough.” It wasn’t a lie. Her sleep was dreamless, and she certainly felt calmer than the night before.

Beau yawned again, but watched her carefully. “I’m sorry we didn’t wake you up for the dawn watch. I know you really like it, but I figured you could use your sleep.”

Jester couldn’t bring herself to force a pout. “Thanks, I guess.” The words came out with much more of a bite than she intended, and she couldn’t help the twinge of guilt she felt—at least she felt _something_ —when Beau’s face dipped into a frown.

The human just shrugged it off, turning back to the pot over the fire. She planted her elbows back on her knees as Yasha made her way into view, food bundled in her arms. She sat down by the fire next to Beau.

“Jester,” Yasha called softly, “would you like to help us with breakfast?”

There’s a weight in her bones but Yasha was too compelling. “Sure.”

Over by the fire, Yasha was already tearing apart a loaf of bread into seven even parts and spreading butter and honey over each piece. “You can make tea,” she said, nodding to the box where the tea was kept. “Beau, could you get more water?”

Any work involved in making tea is minimal, but Jester vaguely enjoys the mindless motions of gathering everyone’s favorite herbs into the little tea bags, then dolling out the hot water into their little cups and steeping the tea bags. She toyed with each bag, dunking them in and out of the water, focusing on the various scents wafting from each. The kind Caleb likes doesn’t smell very good, but he likes his bitter and dark, like his coffee. Others are much more pleasant. 

Whether they are woken by the smell, the light, or something else entirely, the others wake soon enough and begin to creep over to the fire. Breakfast is consumed in relative silence, with bleary eyes and yawns all around. 

After breakfast, Mollymauk brushed the crumbs off his hands and rose to his feet. “Alright. I think we should pick a few of us to go back down the trail a little ways to look for Jester’s paints. We could roll out, take a walk and keep our eyes peeled, and be back around noon.”

Jester leapt up. “We should go now.”

“Of course.”

The volunteer search party consisted of Mollymauk, Fjord, and Beauregard, all who slipped out from between the trees to find Jester waiting with her arms crossed.

When she forced a smile it fell flat, so she just let it slip back down. “We should go,” she said, and took off down the trail. While Fjord and Beau trailed behind, talking softly, Molly fell into step with her.

“Jester, dear,” he said slowly, “if we don’t find anything—“

“We’ll find it,” she said, and focused back on the trail, watching intently as she shaded her eyes from the rising sun.

They searched all morning as the sun made its way across the sky and arched up and over their heads. The ragtag group scoured the trail for hours, far longer than was originally planned; eventually they made their way back to the clearing in the grass where they had settled down for lunch the previous day.

Jester traced the edge of the circular clearing, then spiraled into the center, where she turned and faced the group.

“I had it here yesterday,” she said, “it wouldn’t be here.”

“We can look again on the way back,” Molly said firmly.

So they searched. Slowly and carefully they searched and searched and traced up the path again until the cloudless sky turned pale blue and purple and their shadows lengthened to twice their height. They fanned out and walked in a sweeping row of four to search the trail and the grass around it, all eyes peeled for a metal box, or perhaps its spilled contents.

Then the copse of trees where their camp lay rose into sight.

Nothing had been found.

Jester walked back into the trees and laid down on her bedroll. 

It was too much. Too much in the way that there was a solid weight in her chest again, the kind that dragged every part of her down and left a hollow emptiness in its wake. She couldn’t even fake a smile.

-

After the loss of her paints, time passed indefinitely. Hours spent laying in her bedroll overnight melted into morning, when the Mighty Nein packed up camp and continued on their journey. She did what she had to as they ventured out, taking the scouting missions when she needed to, sitting in the back of the cart otherwise.

As they travelled the wild turned into farmland, then to nameless villages and towns that all seemed be the epitome of insignificant nothingness. After a couple days she decided to quit being selfish and force her previous good mood back. It didn’t work at first, but she made it work; it was unfair to everyone else if she brought the whole mood down. It wasn’t their problem, they shouldn’t have to deal with it.

So they moved onward. It was hard to keep up her mask of happiness throughout every interaction of every day, but Jester managed.

Things didn’t change until about two or three weeks after she lost her paints. It was then that they had passed through a handful of small towns and a pinch of larger ones that Jester was persuaded to return to the inn they were staying at early.

“I didn’t even get to go back to the pastry shop,” she complained, but let Beauregard loop an arm through hers and pull her away.

“It’ll be worth it,” Beau insisted, “I promise. Besides, we can just go back tomorrow.”

Back at the inn, Nott was waiting by the staircase, grinning the grin that made it look like her sharp teeth were spilling out of her mouth. She said nothing, only scampered up the stairs with a motion to follow.

Reasonably suspicious, Jester followed.

Beau, still holding her arm, led her to the end of the hallway where their room was to meet Nott, practically bouncing on the soles of her feet. The little goblin took Jester’s other hand, and Beau opened the door.

Inside, the rest of the Mighty Nein were crouched in the middle of the floor around a wrapped package, all striking—intentionally or not—various goofy poses. Yasha kneeled directly behind the box, wrapped in brown gift wrap stenciled with what looked like food designs, arms outstretched with an awkward yet genuine smile on her face. To her right was Caleb, hands shoved into his pockets, watching nervously but smiling as his eyes darted around the room. Next to him, posing dramatically with his arms out in a flourishing gesture was Mollymauk, grinning wide. On Yasha’s left was Fjord, mimicking Molly’s pose, but with a far more awkward air.

Jester paused in the doorway, mouth falling open.

“ _Caleb!_ ” Nott hissed, “do the thing!”

Barely restraining a smile, Caleb lifted his diamond from his pocket and cast a spell that made shards of light dance around the room, bouncing off the walls and the beds and Jester’s own stunned face.

The following chorus of “Surprise!” was poorly timed, but it didn’t matter.

“What—“ She couldn’t make the words come out. “I don’t—“

Nott squeezed her hand, and Beau pulled her forward.

“You’ve been down lately,” the monk said, “so we figured that it would be good to—you know—do something nice, because it’s obvious that painting is really important to you, and—“

“What she’s _trying_ so say,” Molly interrupted, “is that we owe you so much for being such a good influence on us all, and that we just want you to be happy. So, we pooled some funds together to get you a gift.”

Jester’s eyes began to fill with tears, not for the first time in recent history; but they were good tears, this time, and her heart was swelling and she was absolutely beaming, cheeks fit to split apart, and there was a balloon expanding in her stomach once again—

“I love you guys,” she wailed, furiously blinking away tears. She threw her arms around Beau and Nott and pulled them with her to the center of the room.

The others gathered around her as she sat in front of the package. Up closer she saw that the wrapping paper was stenciled with purple pastry stamps, including everything from cupcakes and donuts to éclairs and religieuse; all of Jester’s favorites, in one place. Carefully, so as to not ruin the paper, she pulled apart the wrapping to reveal a pristine silver box etched with delicate pictures of paint palettes and brushes. 

Jester looked up at her friends—her family—crowded around her, all watching with enraptured, hopeful grins. When she teared up this time, she couldn’t push them back. She put her head down on top of the box.

There was a series of laughs and a couple “oh no!”s, and Jester found herself blanketed in a group hug. She laughed tearily, only sitting up when the others drew away.

“Open it!” Beau encouraged.

Jester wiped her cheeks, but didn’t even bother to make an attempt at ceasing her tears. Hands shaking, she pulled the lid off of the box; though her eyes were blurry with tears, she could make out a heaping supply of brand new oil painting materials. 

“Guys—“ Jester’s voice cracked.

The Might Nein converged over her in another fittingly mighty hug. 

“You guys are the best,” she sobbed, throwing her arms around whoever she could.

Some of the others were crying, too, she could tell. She could definitely feel a wet spot on her shoulder where someone’s face was, and there were more than a couple shaking breaths and teary laughs. 

When the crying wound down and Jester could speak without her voice shaking—too much, at least—she sat up and said, “You guys didn’t have to do this.” She dabbed beneath her eyes with the end of her sleeve. 

Yasha’s voice was impossibly soft. “We wanted to.”

“Where did you guys even get all this stuff?”

“Here and there,” Beau said suspiciously. “I promise, it was all legally paid for, though.”

“Most of it,” Nott supplied.

Still kneeling next to her with his arm around her shoulders, Molly was practically vibrating with excitement. “We commissioned the box specifically from Pumat Sol, so it’s hand crafted and enchanted to fit as many supplies in it, to your heart’s content.”

“How did you correspond back and forth to Zadash so quickly?”

He smiled, all pure glee and pointed canines. “Let us worry about the details.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everybody for reading, chapter 3 coming soon(ish)!


End file.
